Just another morning in winter

Fresh snow accumulated overnight, redrawing the lines of the landscape.  The birds gather around the feeder, some on the ground scratching for fallen seeds buried in the snow.  A red-tailed hawk perches on a high branch in a tree at the edge of the meadow, watching.  Waiting.  A fine white powder, barely visible, is being squeezed and sifted from the clouds overhead, falling softly, silently, in a straight line from sky to ground.  The air is still.  The raspy screech of another hawk somewhere off in the distance is carried across the hills and the pond.

I wonder why all the birds don’t fly south to escape the cold and snow, leaving us birdless for a season.

Day 21.

zero degrees at sunrise

fifteen minutes at zero degrees
even with layers
— fleece gloves, mittens on top —
the cold nips, snaps, bites
invades my fingertips
inducing clumsiness
benumbed, dipping them in warm water
color and feeling return
with excruciating pain
not one good photo to show for it

Day 20’s small stone.

It’s bitterly cold here today after yesterday’s snowstorm.  I went out at sunrise hoping to catch some of the pink and purple sunlight that ushered in the dawn.  The cold went right to my fingers.  It wasn’t long before my cold-numbed fingers were stumbling around on the camera buttons, a sure sign it’s time to give up and go inside.  My fingers are fine, but the warm-up was painful.

ghosts

The scent of onions and garlic linger,
ghosts of last night’s dinner
roaming through the house.

A small stone for Day 19.

morning tea

perched on a stool in the kitchen
bare feet gripping the rungs
hands embracing the warmth of a cuppa
I watch the snowflakes bob and boogie
to the music on the radio

Day 18.

Rainy day abstracts

Sheets of rain dash across the surface of the pond, driven by bursts of wind.  Streamlets of mud snake their way downhill, bleeding into the water, great brown blotches spreading out across the grayish-green reflection from the sky.

a dance

there is a poem
(a book, a song)
by Leonard Cohen
called
Dance Me to the End of Love

and we have learned
as we have danced
over these many years
that there is no
End of Love

Happy Birthday to my dance partner.

A small stone for a special Day 16.

If interested, you can listen to the song here.  The collage is from a series of photos I took of the book.

Eight degrees

Sparkles of red, blue, and gold twinkle on the pond.  The birds are sunning themselves in the bare trees, trying to catch a little warmth on this frigid morning.  Bright, beautiful sunshine and blue skies have replaced the clouds.  Feet of ice dip their toes into a stream of blue water.  Not everything is frozen.

Day 15.

fantasy island

eyes closed
warm water
cascading
over my head
and body
I am standing
beneath a waterfall
on a tropical island
where snow and winter
never visit

A small stone for Day 14.

scrambled superstitions

If you walk under a cat
Or let a black ladder cross your path
On Friday the 13th
You will receive seven mirrors
Of broken luck.

If you make a wish by chance
Or enter a frog’s house
On Friday the 13th
A chimney sweep will come true.

Three butterflies in a circle
Will bring good luck to a four-leaf clover
But only if you find them
On Friday the 13th.

Just a bit of (lame) silliness for my 13th small stone.

thursday’s rain

the steady drip of rain
against the window pane
ice melting, drizzling
pouring downhill
merging with the pond
one drop, one body
of water
at a time

Today’s small stone.